


How Long It's Only Been

by cynthia_arrow (thesilverarrow)



Category: Panic! at the Disco
Genre: Established Relationship, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-14
Updated: 2013-03-14
Packaged: 2017-12-05 06:19:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,443
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/719839
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thesilverarrow/pseuds/cynthia_arrow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Spencer can be a dick sometimes. But he can also be very sorry.</p>
            </blockquote>





	How Long It's Only Been

**Author's Note:**

> This was originally posted to livejournal about a million years ago. I'm simply archiving it here.
> 
> This is to say -- it's a pretty old-school Panic fic. Well before the band split.

The thing is, Spencer's kind of wasted, so it's Ryan who drives him out to Jon's rental house, and he really would resent the hell out of them for the interference and the uncharacteristic attempts at mother henning if they weren't his best friends.   
  
Of course, if they weren't his best friends, they wouldn't be acting like he's going to fry in some medieval hell if he doesn't make amends right this very fucking second,  _don't make me kick your ass, Spencer Smith_. The thing is, Spencer wants to apologize. He really does. He maybe wanted to as soon as it happened, but he was mad, and then he let things get awkward, then too much time went by—time he didn't have to see him because they're not crammed into a tour bus right now—and then by a certain point his pride had stepped in.   
  
He'd maybe like to wait until he's sober, but then he might not be able to look him in the eye. And, anyway, he's waited long enough: it's been thirty-six hours since he yelled at Brendon—at this Brendon who is his  _boyfriend_  now—and was mean to him and called him an idiot, and, yes, he's sorry it took him thirty four hours to own up to having gone too far, two hours to get trashed, and three minutes to have it decided for him that he would go and face the music now, whatever the music was.  
  
Even though what he said isn't the worst words that have ever come out of his mouth, certainly not the worst he ever lobbed at Brendon, it feels like more, like this is not something they can solve by texting. He racks his addled brain and remembers enough pissy little bitch fights between them to count on at least two hands that dissolved with a few well-chosen words of text. The phone sometimes, too, but Spencer vacillates between shrill and silent and Brendon's voice tends to shake too much. But they muddle through. Brendon seems to know his big brown eyes are too much for a person to endure. He doesn't like confrontation and turmoil any more than Spencer. They're guys, after all. This is why they don't fight face to face. This is why Spencer just doesn't deal with him when he's upset.  
  
When Spencer's angry, he goes to see Jon. When he's depressed, he hangs with Ryan. When he's everything else, he keeps Brendon as close as he ever thought he'd want to keep another person.  
  
So this not being able to get close to Brendon at all, and it's his own damn fault? It fucking sucks.  
  
*  
  
When they came out of Ryan's house, it was night and the sky was spitting just enough rain that he probably could've used an umbrella. But he didn't have one, and he couldn't quite feel the rain, anyway. Even now, everything's still kind of fuzzy, although he thinks he's maybe sobering a bit. The car pulls up and he wonders if this is bad: maybe he should really be totally sober for this. But Ryan's staring at him, and Jon's not being very subtle about looking out through the blinds, so he has no choice but to push open the door and stumble out of the car.  
  
He feels like he'll trip going up the walk, but he doesn't. He watches carefully as his strategically ripped up Chucks hit wet pavement one after the other, again and again. He scrunches his shoulders up to his ears to keep out the light rain, but he has to move them when he knocks on the door. He doesn't have to breathe, though. He kind of can't.  
  
Brendon is the one who opens the door. He's in jeans and a faded red t-shirt, the soft one that he wore the first time he slept in Spencer's bed in that hotel room in Vancouver. He looks like hell. Spencer suddenly feels like throwing up.  
  
He's been thinking of things to say, but he can't think of them now.  
  
What comes out is simply: "I'm sorry, B. Please."  
  
Without hesitation, Brendon steps over the threshold with bare feet and wraps his arms around him, murmuring, "Okay," and Spencer begins to realize how hollow he'd been feeling just about the time he doesn't feel hollow anymore, just a little sore in all the places he feels warm again.   
  
They stand there like that for long enough that his heart slows down and his hair's sticking wet against his neck, and Brendon's too. He's vaguely aware of Ryan slipping up the walk and in through the open door. Spencer doesn't want to move, though. Maybe if he does, it will disappear. More likely, though, it won't disappear at all, no more than the problem itself has. This will be more complicated than a four word apology and a one word reply. So he clings, cowardly, and it's probably okay because Brendon's clinging too.   
  
The porch light isn't on. The world is dark and quiet around them, just the occasional swish of tires on pavement. Brendon's lips fall against his neck. It's then that he realizes that Brendon's shaking, every intake of breath a stutter.  
  
"God," Spencer says, holding him tighter. "You're cold. Let's go inside."  
  
Brendon reluctantly unpeels himself from Spencer's arms. "I'm not cold," he says.  
  
And when he pulls him inside by the hand, just like that there's already a little distance between them again.   
  
*  
  
They plod silently into the house, Spencer kicking off his wet shoes at the door, and they go straight to bed—not to sleep and not to fuck but because they talk better when they're touching, even if they're not looking at each other. Maybe especially then.   
  
Jon's guest bed might as well be theirs. It's piled high with quilts his granny or his great aunt or somebody made, but they smell like Brendon. Brendon stubbornly pulls Spencer back against his chest and holds him there spooned up against him, forehead hot against his back, one blanket haphazardly thrown over their legs.  
  
"You're drunk," Brendon finally says.  
  
"Yeah."  
  
"You don't get drunk," he replies, like this is a normal conversation between friends, lovers. Or like they have to talk about something because if they don't, the rest of the somethings they're not talking about will come out. Spencer's both annoyed and relieved.  
  
"Yes, I do."  
  
"Not like this. Not…"   
  
Spencer turns over in his arms completely, abruptly. "Hey," he says, trying to hold his gaze. "You know I don't think you're stupid. You know that, right? Brendon?"  
  
"It wasn't that," Brendon says, burying his face against Spencer's shoulder.  
  
"Look at me."  
  
He doesn't. "Spence."   
  
Spencer puts his mouth to Brendon's ear, holding his head still, perhaps a little too firmly, but he can't fucking help it. "I don't mean to be an asshole. Not to you."  
  
After a beat, Brendon mumbles, "Why not to me?"  
  
"What?"  
  
With a heaving sigh, Brendon pulls away from him and climbs out of bed. Spencer is left to sit up and watch him pace the room, collecting some of his clothing. He doesn't put any of it on, just nervously shoves it into his bag like he simply needs something to occupy his hands. Spencer doesn't want to think about whether he's actually packing, and because he's leaving.  
  
"Brendon?"  
  
"You used to bitch at me all the time," he says without turning around. "You don’t anymore."  
  
"Okay."  
  
"You don't. Today was the first time in…"  
  
"But what I said wasn't—"  
  
"That's not the point." He finally turns to look at him, and it's clear his trying to rein something in. His eyes, as always, give it away. "Yeah, you were kind of an asshole. Yeah, you…hurt my feelings. But you didn't used to run the fuck away from having bad fucking moods. You just had them. And we forgive you. Just like you forgive me for all my dumb bullshit."   
  
"I shouldn't have said you don't see anything that isn't inside your own head. That wasn't fair."  
  
"Well," Brendon says, finally sitting down on the bed again. "You knew that when you said it."  
  
Now that he's said what he wanted to say, his eyes are not that large, bottomless brown anymore, nor are they that rich, hot color they get when he's angry. They are squinted up and he smiles at him the way he normally does only on the stage. Smiles like there are things you couldn't speak even if you could hear over the roar.  
  
Except this time it's knowing tinged with melancholy, and there is no roar here. Spencer feels tears sting his eyes. Brendon gets up and kneels down and continues tucking things into his bag. After a long moment of silence, Spencer heaves himself off the bed and winds out of the room, so afraid to touch him that he doesn't even try.  
  
*  
  
The porcelain edge of the tub is cold. His hair's still damp, and now he looks like he's been crying, which he has, a little maybe. The water is cold on his face, too, when he splashes it in the sink. He wonders where Ryan and Jon have disappeared to. If he knows them, they've gone out somewhere, and they'll return with frozen waffles or pizza or chips and guacamole, and Spencer will have no choice but to admit he has the best friends in the world.  
  
All three of them.  
  
He defends them all like they're his brothers, nobody more than Brendon because he somehow requires more defending. It's too easy to assume he's what you see when you look at him. Once, Spencer went three days without talking to Ryan—in the middle of a tour, no less—because he was being a snotty shit to Brendon for simply being…Brendon. As if that's all he is.  
  
Spencer knows better. Or at least he fucking should. The problem is sometimes even  _Brendon_  doesn't seem to know better.  
  
When Spencer opens the door to the bathroom, Brendon's in the hallway, sitting with his back to the wall, looking up at him.  
  
Spencer says, "I wish I could explain why you made me so mad."   
  
"I made you—?"  
  
"It's. I just." He's not looking at Brendon anymore, but it's still hard. "I want you to respect yourself. And to, like, stop acting like you think people expect you to be-- And sometimes you don't. And I." He sighs. "You're right." Brendon looks up, and Spencer gives him a small smile. "I should probably bitch at you more."  
  
Brendon's on his feet so fast it makes Spencer a little dizzy. Brendon's hands on his neck are still a little cold.   
  
"I didn't hear you puking," he says.  
  
He shakes his head. "Not that drunk."  
  
Brendon's cupping his face, thumbing over his cheek. "You are a gigantic dumbass moron asshole bastard," he murmurs warmly. "We're talking epic proportions."  
  
"Yeah."  
  
Brendon looks at him with so much concern, something oddly fierce for all it shows itself in the softness of his face. So Spencer awkwardly guides him back into the wall opposite, until he's stumbling against him and kissing him just as fiercely on the mouth, eventually just as softly, too.  
  
When he draws back, Brendon's smiling but still examining him with his eyes.   
  
Spencer says. "You get me, don't you?"   
  
Brendon shrugs.  
  
Spencer says, "You do."  
  
Brendon doesn't reply at first, but when he does, he says, "It's kind of fucked up to try to build up somebody's self-esteem by telling them how stupid they are."  
  
"I'm sorry."  
  
"I know," he says, then he smiles. "Just saying."  
  
*  
  
Before they climb in the bed again, Brendon shucks his jeans, so Spencer does the same.   
  
Brendon's feet are cold. They lie on their backs under one of the quilts, bodies brushing, and hands. Brendon's other arm is thrown over his face, and he kind of talks to the ceiling.  
  
"Worst part is how I was so… But all I could think was to go find you to talk about it."  
  
"You come to me when you're upset about shit?"  
  
"Don't I?"  
  
Spencer nods, then he says, "It just feels realer, I think."  
  
"What does?"  
  
"Yelling at you. Now that we're…"  
  
"Shouldn't it be?"  
  
Spencer nods, and for a moment he gets absolutely caught up in Brendon's eyes. He still has a hard time sorting out just when this happened, when he started seeing him this way. He wonders sometimes if maybe he always did somehow, maybe before he was even aware of it. All he can be sure of is the aware part, how hopelessly long and so very confusing it felt, even after that rush of relief when he realized Brendon felt it, too. It wasn't easy. So worth it to have this thing they have now, but it was still hard.  
  
Spencer says, "I don't think you have any idea…"   
  
Brendon raises his eyebrows, and Spencer shakes his head. Brendon chuckles, just enough to shudder the mattress a little.   
  
"You think too much," Brendon says.  
  
"No," Spencer replies firmly. "That's just it. I don't. Not with you. Us. I didn't think about what would happen if…"  
  
"Which you should blame me for," he says, finally turning his head to look at him and giving him a weary smile under his arm. "I kissed you, remember."  
  
"Brendon." Spencer turns in the bed and slings his leg up over Brendon's, his arm over his warm body, nudging his face up under Brendon's jaw. "You know it wasn't some impulsive thing. You don't have any idea how long I thought about this and didn't do it, knowing it would be crazy. And then I did it anyway, and now I'm like mortally afraid I'm going to fuck it up."  
  
"How long?"  
  
He just kisses his jaw, sucking then biting.   
  
Nobody says anything or even moves for a minute, not until Spencer hears Brendon take in a sharp breath, just before he says, "I'm not going to run the fuck away from you, okay. So you can't do this running to Ryan bullshit every time you think you're going to, like,  _inflict_  yourself on me. I'm a big boy and I can—"  
  
Spencer laughs.   
  
"What?" Brendon snaps.  
  
Spencer holds him tighter, still giggling but trying to stop. "Sorry."  
  
"Fuck you," Brendon says, jerking away from him.  
  
But Spencer holds on. "No, it's." He whispers, "Please."  
  
Brendon calms in his arms, but he's still pretty rigid, and that sobers Spencer pretty quickly.   
  
"I never could go to you because it was usually that I was mopey as fuck  _about_  you, okay?" Spencer says. "Maybe Ryan knows, I don't know. But  _I_  didn't even for a while. And then… Shit, it's like-- It's that I couldn't tell you how I didn't want to...fuck you if it meant I had to stop being your friend, except I also couldn't stop wanting to touch you all the time, and—"  
  
Brendon is so soon twisting against him and swallowing his words up in a deep kiss that it's startling. It's odd, but those full, often rambling lips of his are wonderfully quieting, in so many ways.   
  
When Brendon pulls back a little, kissing his forehead and then his neck, he says: "I didn't get it. For so long."  
  
"I know."  
  
"No, I mean, that's why you kind of hate me."  
  
"I don't hate you."  
  
"You do. Kind of. For not getting it."  
  
Brendon's kissing his neck. Spencer says with a smile, "Maybe. Maybe a little."  
  
Brendon says, "I get it now, though."  
  
"Yeah." Spencer doesn't even want to think of what it would've been like if he never did--or worse, never felt it.  
  
Warmly, Brendon murmurs, "I don't know why everyone has this idea that you're so goddamned patient."  
  
"Two years."  
  
"Jesus," Brendon replies, giving this big sigh, dramatic but not melodramatic. For a minute, Spencer's stomach drops again, but then he sees that Brendon's smiling against his neck. Amazedly, to be sure, but smiling.  
  
Now, Spencer has to work kind of hard to grumble properly: "I'm pretty fucking patient."  
  
Brendon giggles. "Except how you get all quietly pissy about things."  
  
"Except when I'm not quiet about it at all."  
  
"I was out on the patio yesterday, ranting and raving, and—"  
  
"About this?"  
  
"Yeah. You didn't think you were the only one pissed off, did you? Anyway, Jon said I picked the same place to perch that you always do when you come over here and vent. You don't vent at Ryan?"  
  
"Hard to do when I'm venting  _about_  Ryan."  
  
Brendon laughs, then he gets quiet and still again, the way he does when he's thinking.   
  
After a moment, he says, "You know, maybe you should just feel how you feel and stop running around like we don't know who you really are and love you anyway."  
  
Love? he thinks, but it's actually not so startling. So many different kinds of love. So many different kinds with Brendon. He just had no idea it could be this hard sometimes. Hard, but worth it, right?  
  
"I'll try," he replies.   
  
*  
  
Burrowed into the blankets, they fill each other in on the past day or so, especially Ryan and Jon's often comical or just plain inept attempts at dealing with the two of them and the situation.   
  
At a lull in storytime, between fits of giggles, Spencer says, "We're…okay, right?"   
  
"Mmm hmm."  
  
"Then why do I still feel like hell?"  
  
"What were you drinking, anyway?"  
  
"It's not the drinking."  
  
"The hell it's not," Brendon says. "Vodka?"  
  
"How did—"  
  
"Makes you mopey. Plus, I left half a bottle of Grey Goose over at Ryan's a couple of weeks back."  
  
"Hmm."  
  
"Do you know," Brendon says with a sudden and blinding smile, "how cute you are when you're moping?"  
  
"Brendon…"  
  
"Fuck me."  
  
Spencer actually pulls back from him and gives him a confused grimace—completely at war with this sudden warmth shooting straight down into his gut. Which will have to do battle with the sudden throbbing in his head.  
  
"What?"  
  
"You. Me. You  _in_  me. Sex. Fucking." He grins wickedly. "Don't make me beg like a dirty whore, because you know I totally will."  
  
"Brendon…"  
  
Brendon's hands are already wandering, teasing and sliding over his body just like his mouth moves against his jaw.   
  
Spencer whines, "You know how it is when I'm drunk."  
  
"Sobering. And you know how I am when you're all rubbed up against me like this. Fucking hell. I missed you."  
  
"It's only been—"  
  
"Shut up about how long it's only been."  
  
Spencer does. Brendon's tongue probes into his mouth, wet and tentative, and soon he's hard against his thigh, hard against Spencer's cock—which isn't exactly uninterested despite the mass quantities of alcohol he poured into himself earlier. But he ignores himself and peels off Brendon's boxers as he throws the blanket off them and pushes the rest of the pile to the floor so he can crawl down between his legs.  
  
Brendon grunts as Spencer takes his cock in his mouth, sucking tight and wet and unwilling to take his time about it. For Brendon's part, for the arch in his back and the way he's already pressing his palm into the back of Spencer's neck to hold him there, he seems to want it fast, too. Spencer swallows him as deep as he dares, the familiar taste at the back of his throat, the smell of Brendon making him hard enough he wants to touch himself or at least rub his hips into the mattress, but he doesn't. He just watches as Brendon quickly comes apart, his whole body jerking as he pours down his throat, saying his name over and over.  
  
Spencer hardly has time to slide back up his body before Brendon's kissing him and trying to push his boxers down over his hips at the same time.  
  
"Can I ride you?" he murmurs against Spencer's neck. "I wanna make you come."  
  
"I don't think that'll—"  
  
"But you want it?"  
  
"Brendon, it's not that sim—"  
  
His head gives a dull but all-encompassing ache of pain as Brendon rolls them over, putting Spencer on his back. He's half-giggling as he kisses him, murmuring to himself about a lack of lube and not thinking of fucking when he packed a fucking bag and  _oh, wait, there's some hand lotion in the little red bag, I think_.  
  
When Brendon comes back with the lotion, Spencer forgets to glare at the bottle dubiously because Brendon's stark naked and, hell, who cares if his cock's mostly soft already—he's still fucking hot, lithe and strong, and Spencer's suddenly hungry for this, even if it's probably gonna make him feel worse. He needs to make this good for Brendon.   
  
He's still a little uncoordinated and dizzy. Luckily, Brendon's hips make up the difference. Brendon likes to be on his back for this part, and he wiggles up into Spencer's fingers, opening for him. Always so open. As much as it makes Spencer nervous, it also makes him ache—to touch more, to go deeper, to drink up every sound he makes and every expression on his face, especially the ones he puts there, the things he gives Brendon, that Brendon wants to take from him.  
  
As Spencer adds a third finger, Brendon's eyes snap open and he groans. "God, enough. Now, Spence. Get your ass on the bed and let me take you."  
  
"Bossy," Spencer murmurs, obliging him by climbing over him and lying down on his back. He sits up on his elbows, letting Brendon kiss him as he rolls on the condom and slicks him up. Brendon stops to pull off his shirt before he gets into place straddling his hips.  
  
Spencer shuts his eyes as Brendon sinks down onto him, so fucking tight at first but then it's fine. It's all so fine. And Brendon is as good as his word, fucking him hard, falling into this slow rhythm that pushes him deeper and deeper as he adjusts. Spencer watches his mouth, the way those lips of his curl around gasps of breath. Spencer would like to have that mouth all over him, or his own mouth all over Brendon, but he sits back and lets Brendon have his way.   
  
Brendon's not making much noise—he usually doesn't—but he's breathing heavy and every so often he does let out a groan. Eventually, Brendon's cock comes up fully hard again, and Spencer suddenly thinks he might be able to make himself come after all, if he can only touch Brendon the right way, make him shiver and come again, with him. He jerks him hard, just as hard as Brendon's fucking him and just the way he likes it, and when Brendon curses and calls out his name, Spencer pushes his hips up into a downward thrust and comes. Soon, Brendon does, too, in long, hot streams over Spencer's chest and stomach.   
  
All their blankets are gone, but it's just as well. Brendon's like a blanket himself, although his tendency to collapse against Spencer when it's all over usually means they end up stuck to each other. After they get their breathing back under control, Spencer prods him into rolling over and getting up, and they risk a naked trip through the house to the bathroom.   
  
*  
  
Ryan and Jon are eating ice cream straight out of a carton when Brendon and Spencer wander out of the bathroom and into the kitchen. They had randomly scooped up some of their discarded clothing on the way to the bathroom, just in case, so Brendon's wearing his own red t-shirt and Spencer's boxers, which is actually pretty distracting. Spencer's wearing nothing but his jeans. Absolutely nothing—which is only worth it because of the way Brendon looks at him, knowing he's going commando. As he slides up to the counter, he shifts uncomfortably, adjusting himself, and turns his back on the Rocky Road, nauseated.   
  
"So," Jon says. "Everything seems cool?"  
  
Brendon just nods, glancing at Spencer with a smile. Brendon wraps an arm around his waist, his ice cream cold fingers digging into Spencer's hipbone.  
  
Brendon says, "I think we used all your hot water."  
  
One of Jon's eyebrows goes up. Ryan sighs, but he's grinning in spite of himself.  
  
Brendon snorts and walks over to the cupboard, filling a glass with water at the sink. When he returns and hands the glass to Spencer, he's still exchanging inscrutable glances with Jon and Ryan.  
  
Spencer says, "What?"  
  
"I don't know," Brendon replies, but it seems like maybe he does know, actually. He looks at Ryan. "How much?"  
  
"Twenty."   
  
"What?" Spencer says.  
  
Brendon murmurs, "I thought so."  
  
"What?" Spencer says again, Brendon shakes his head; he's still looking at Ryan.   
  
"You know," Brendon mutters, "I can't believe you two are still passing money back and forth over what we—"  
  
"Oh my god," Spencer says. "You two were betting on…?"  
  
"…whether you two would've…made up by the time we got back," Jon finishes, and he has the decency to look at least a little sheepish about it, even if that look is battling the small smirk that's been on his face since they came out of the bathroom.  
  
Spencer is trying to drink down as much water as possible—to stave off a headache and to prevent himself from breaking Ryan in half, and maybe Jon, too—when Brendon raises an eyebrow and effects that sort of cool, half smirking expression that makes them all a little nervous.   
  
Brendon says, "You know, what you ought to bet on isn't  _whether_  we made up but how many times, and in how many different rooms."  
  
Needless to say, Spencer swallows some water down the wrong way.   
  
As he's coughing it up out of his lungs, somehow laughing at the same time, for some reason everything comes into sharp, sudden focus. He's here with his three best friends. His head hurts like hell. It's possible he's in love. It's possible that was the reason for all this.   
  
No, he thinks. It's not just possible.   
  
As he's bent over, his chest still shaking with each cough, Brendon's small, warm hands are on his back and neck. When he finally stops trembling and stands up straight again, Brendon threads his arm around his waist, giggling at him even as he holds his gaze, questioning.  
  
All Spencer can manage is an open smile. He hopes that says enough. But in case it doesn't, he puts his arm up over Brendon's shoulders and clings as tightly as he can.


End file.
